


wish i could live in your heart

by cynical_optimist



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Domesticity, Fluff, M/M, Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_optimist/pseuds/cynical_optimist
Summary: Some mornings, Even will untangle himself from Isak completely, rolling out of bed to make breakfast. More often, he will try, and Isak will hold tight, and Even will stay, chuckling to himself and murmuring about octopi. These are the mornings Isak prefers, the ones where he can stare at Even’s face until he slips back into sleep or curl into him, every part of himself warm and safe.-Of domestic mornings and being in love.





	wish i could live in your heart

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just trying out writing evak before I get into a longer fic, so here, have some fluff. Many thanks to [Sarah](yousanaisendgame.tumblr.com), as always, for encouraging me and betaing.  
> Title from HOMESHAKE's Give It to Me.

Ultimately, moving in with Even is a practical decision. Isak has a justification for every aspect of it—Noora had wanted her old room back, and Even was feeling ready to move out of home, and the apartment that they found was in a more convenient location than Even’s parents’ house or the flat. It means he and Even can be there for each other on bad days without worrying about intruding on other people’s space. He has this spiel prepared for every person that asks, their bemused eyebrows raised and voices lilted in doubt. When rationalising it to his father, he adds a desire for independence and the ability to make his own decisions.

  
Every part of his justification is completely accurate; that doesn’t mean it’s the entire truth.

  
The truth of the matter is this: Isak is totally, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with his boyfriend, and he wants to be able to fall asleep to the sight of his face every night of the week. He wants to find Even in their kitchen, curl up with him on their couch, go to bed with him and eat with him and never have to say goodbye for more than a few hours at a time. He wants to not have to worry about roommates, to take turns cooking and bicker about laundry and be everything he never saw in his parents when they were together.  
More than anything, though, Isak wants the mornings.

  
They're his favourite part of moving in with Even, more than the space and the privacy and the distinctive feeling of knowing a place is his. He's never been a morning person by any means, but he finds himself waking for just a few hazy moments far earlier than he’ll ever get up just for this.

  
Every morning is similar, like running along a script too natural for Isak to ever want to diverge from.

  
Isak opens his eyes, blinking away sleep, the soft morning light falling over their mattress-- and later, when they get their shit together, their bed. Even sleeps on next to him, peaceful in his rest. Their legs are twined together, fingers curled around each other’s, heads resting close enough that Isak can feel Even’s breath fanning over his face. It smells horrible, like breaths always do in the morning, but Isak is so disgustingly gone for him that he doesn't even care.

  
Isak thinks, maybe, that he is never more in love with Even than he is in these moments, when he's just this side of alseep and his boyfriend is starting to stir into wakefulness. There is a soft awe that he feels in every part of himself, warm and comforting and all-encompassing, and he feels that every moment of his day but there is something special about this moment, about the first time he feels it each morning, before there is anything else to drown it out. Here, it is all he feels, sleep-warm and rested and falling back asleep already.

  
Even’s eyes blink open, and before he is even fully awake he is smiling back at Isak, untangling their fingers to reach up and stroke his cheek.

  
“Halla,” he murmurs, voice rough, and Isak hadn't even known he was smiling but it makes sense, here in this moment where everything is Even and warmth and sleep.

  
“Halla,” he replies, turning his face just enough that his mouth catches on Even’s fingers. He presses a kiss to them, and Even’s smile grows, tender. They had moments like this before moving, when one or the other had stayed over, but it wasn't every morning, was always interrupted by others moving throughout the house. Now, here, everything is still, like the entire world has frozen in time for them, like nothing else exists.

  
Some mornings, Even will untangle himself from Isak completely, rolling out of bed to make breakfast. More often, he will try, and Isak will hold tight, and Even will stay, chuckling to himself and murmuring about octopi. These are the mornings Isak prefers, the ones where he can stare at Even’s face until he slips back into sleep or curl into him, every part of himself warm and safe.

  
This morning is the latter, and Isak rolls until his back is to Even’s chest, drawing the blanket’s tighter around them. They usually go to bed in this position or the other way around, but the two of them move far too much in their sleep to stay that way.

  
Even’s lips settle on the back of Isak’s neck, arms tightening around him, fingers drawing patterns up his shirt. Usually, Isak would only have half an hour or so more sleep, the threat of being late to class too heavy to truly enjoy the moment, but today is a Sunday, and neither of them have anything to do but this.

  
Soon, maybe, he might move, work on assignments or organise something with the boys, but none of that is more important than staying in his bed, boyfriend a now-familiar presence behind him, no obligations or worries or anything at all on his mind.

  
He doesn't think he'll ever get used to this. Not in a month, when their parents promise the novelty will wear off, not in a year, or thirty, or fifty, if he has one or thirty or fifty years with Even. Every moment like this feels simultaneously new and familiar, like nothing he could ever be bored of, not in a million parallel universes. Every part of this is a privilege, more than he'd ever imagined he could have, and every day it shocks him down to the core of him to still have it, even as he falls into comforting routine, even as he memorises every step of it and every part of Even.

  
“Love you,” Even whispers to him, pressing a kiss to his neck, both of them still half asleep, and god, Isak loves how those are the first words he hears in the morning, loves how he can hear them every morning, and maybe that's a sign of something not quite right, but he can't bring himself to care when it's Even that's saying them.

  
“Love you too,” Isak whispers back, and feels his boyfriend’s lips curve into a smile. He closes his eyes again, feeling all at once too heavy and overwhelmingly light.

  
He falls asleep like this, warm and safe and wonderful, and all he can feel or think is love, love, love.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [boxesfullofyousana](boxesfullofyousana.tumblr.com)


End file.
